


Chains of Love

by platypus (kite)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Episode: s08e12 Death in Heaven, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sharing a Bed, anachronistic knickers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 22:55:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4117758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kite/pseuds/platypus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twelve and Missy, chained together at the ankle For Reasons, must share a bed.  Set during Death in Heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chains of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written (belatedly) for the [Only One Bed](http://onlyonebed.livejournal.com) ficathon. Prompt: "Twelve and Missy, chained together at the ankle For Reasons, must share a bed." 
> 
> Thanks to nonelvis for the beta work and encouragement.

"Incoming blips on the scanner," Kate Stewart announces as she strides into Boat One's cargo hold, flanked by UNIT soldiers. "I'm activating Security Protocol Alpha-2." 

"Cybermen?" the Doctor asks, giving Missy a sharp look. 

"Almost certainly. They're tracking us somehow."

"Why is everyone looking at me?" says Missy. "It's probably pigeons." At a nod from Kate, one of the soldiers kneels down next to her, fastening a metal cuff around her ankle.

"Good," says the Doctor. "I didn't want to mention it, but your security did seem slightly inadequate."

"I agree," says Kate. "So I'm sure you'll understand why this is necessary." Another nod, and the soldier takes the other cuff, at the end of a short chain, and locks it around the Doctor's ankle. 

"What? I thought I was the President of Earth!" he protests. Missy, next to him, isn't bothering to hide her amusement. 

"Within reason, Doctor," says Kate. "Given the situation, I need to reduce variables as much as possible. That means keeping both of you contained." 

"You need me," the Doctor argues. "Which one of us is your prisoner, again?" 

"What I need," Kate says, "is to be sure that neither of you is going anywhere. I'll bring you in for briefing when we have further intelligence, but in the meantime..." She shrugs. "You're the one who wanted to talk to her."

Without waiting for further argument, Kate turns to leave, climbing the ladder to the main cabin of the plane. Two UNIT soldiers stay behind, one at the Doctor's elbow and one at Missy's, and escort them to a locked door at the end of the cargo hold. Walking while chained together is awkward, until he falls into pace with Missy; she makes no attempt to lengthen her stride to match his, of course. 

Their makeshift cell seems to be some kind of supply closet converted to sleeping quarters: desk and chair by the door, narrow bed along the wall. Missy appraises the tiny room with a glance. "Cosy, isn't it? Brings back memories." She drapes her coat over the chair, fusses with one of her bracelets. 

It does rather remind him of the dormitory where—no, never mind that. He clears his throat. The knowledge that he and Missy can't get farther from one another than arm's reach is making his skin prickle uneasily. "Why Cybermen?" he asks abruptly. "What good can they possibly do you?"

She makes a face. "No, no, no. We can't talk about that yet. It's a _surprise._ " 

"And Gallifrey? Is that a surprise, too?"

"It's not my fault you can't remember where you put it." Missy casually removes the cameo brooch at her throat, undoes the top couple buttons of her blouse. 

"Wait, what are you doing?" 

"Getting comfortable." She yawns elaborately, patting her mouth. "I don't know about you, but I'm tired." She heads towards the bed, forcing the Doctor to either plant his feet and bring her up short, or follow. 

He follows. "You're a Time Lord. You don't need to sleep."

Missy sits on the edge of the bed and takes her boots off, absently testing the cuff around her ankle; while not tight, it refuses to go over her heel. "Look. You're utterly exhausting, I'm not going to tell you my evil plan, and I think both of us could use a bit of kip." 

She might not even be lying. The Doctor's still feeling some residual fatigue from UNIT's tranquilliser dart, and it's likely worse for Missy, who wasn't given the antidote. Not that he's sympathetic. He gives his ankle a shake, rattling the chain between them. "I can't exactly take the sofa, can I." Even if there were a sofa. 

"We've shared before," she says, sliding pins out of her hair until it falls loose around her shoulders. It's such a small change, but it makes her look younger, less severe. She catches him watching and rolls her eyes. "Are you just going to stand there? I won't bite." She makes a show of scooting over as close to the wall as possible, patting the mattress next to her. The Doctor doesn't move, not even when the chain between them pulls taut. 

Finally, she shrugs and closes her eyes. "Suit yourself." 

After a few minutes, he does start to feel ridiculous, looming over her like this. But when he settles gingerly on the edge of the bed, it feels like he's giving up ground. Missy has taken the only pillow, so he removes his jacket, folding and rolling it into a serviceable substitute. Careful not to jar the mattress, he pulls his chained ankle up.

"No shoes on the bed," Missy says without opening her eyes. He glares uselessly at her, but takes off his boots. 

It's a very narrow bed. He has to pull his arms and legs in close to keep any space at all between them. 

Time passes, probably. He strains to hear what's happening outside, but the plane flies on as serenely as if it were not being chased by flying Cybermen under the control of his oldest friend/closest enemy/sometime lover. Who is sleeping next to him. 

He sneaks a glance over at her, frowning. That's another thing. Why was it so hard to recognise Missy? He should have sensed another Time Lord instinctively, but he didn't. Doesn't. How has she locked herself down so securely? He would have recognised Harold Saxon, if not for the Archangel Network's interference. He should have known what, if not who, Missy was immediately. 

None of this fits together. Cybermen. Danny. Clara ( _where is Clara?_ ). It's all been an elaborate trap; that much was obvious a while ago. But now that it's sprung, it _still_ doesn't make sense. And either Missy feels no urgency about being a prisoner, or she's waiting for something. Or else she _really_ needed that nap. 

He studies her serene profile as if he could extract the answers directly. He could, actually, if he had no ethics. And better technique. And if her mind weren't so tightly shielded. Most likely, she'd wake up in a fury the moment he tried. Probably not the best idea. 

Well, they _have_ shared a bed before. Some of her incarnations, he recalls, had a tendency to talk in their sleep.

"Why are you here, really?" he asks quietly. 

Missy mumbles indistinctly and rolls to face the wall. Her tiny, whistling snore gives away no secrets. 

She's not going anywhere. They're chained together, and he's between her and the door. He closes his eyes briefly against the glare of the overhead light.

* * *

He wakes with his face buried in a fall of dark hair, arm curled loosely around Missy's hip. It's only been 23 minutes, according to what few of his senses haven't been beguiled by the sensation of another double heartbeat so close to his own. The only saving grace is that Missy isn't awake to mock him.

There's a painful familiarity about lying beside her, about holding her; it's astonishing, after hundreds of years and who knows how many regenerations, how right it feels. How _annoyingly_ right. He allows himself a moment, just a moment—she smells of something elusive but familiar; vanilla, almond?—before carefully beginning to extricate his arm.

Her hand shoots up and clamps onto his wrist. Of course. 

Missy stretches, wriggling back against him. "Oh, dear, what's this?" Her voice is velvety, sleep-roughened. "Somebody's awake." 

He is _not_ —not the way she's insinuating, anyway—but he shifts his lower body away from her regardless. 

She lets go of his wrist and rolls over to face him. They're almost nose to nose. "Just like old times, isn't it?" she says with a sleepy smile. He's seen that smile before. Just not on this face. 

When she reaches for him, it's not entirely unexpected. He yearns towards her—flinches away—freezes, caught between contradictory impulses. Even his breath stills as her fingertips brush his temples and her mind sinks into his. 

A dim, distant part of him is surprised not to have to fend off even a perfunctory attempt at mind control. But he expects her to try, and she knows he can resist it, so why bother? 

What he can't resist is _this._ She's dropped her psychic barriers, her mind twining around his like an ecstatic cat. Senses that haven't had input in a thousand years are singing with it, with her, another Time Lord at last—

—and _now_ he's hard, all at once, achingly so, his body going straight for the nearest analogue to the intimacy of mental contact. He feels Missy's smug amusement; she knew exactly what this would do to him. He's clinging to her, he realises, trembling, his body as attuned to her as his mind is. 

" _Just_ like old times," she says again, but she can tease him all she wants as long as she doesn't stop touching him, doesn't withdraw her mind from his. 

She doesn't. She kisses his neck—leaving lipstick stains on his collar, no doubt—and undoes the top few buttons of his shirt, licking, nipping at the newly exposed skin. A sharp twinge of pain makes his breath catch, his cock twitch. 

Missy grins against his neck. "You didn't really believe I wouldn't bite, did you?"

"Not for a moment," he says hoarsely. 

She sucks at the spot she bit, for good measure, and he groans, arching into her. He can feel her pleasure echoing his own, uncalculated, unfeigned, and somewhere deep in the shifting layers of her mind, he glimpses—

"Ah, ah, none of that." She cuts their link off sharply. His mind chases helplessly after hers, too late; he wouldn't be able to bear the sudden loss if their bodies weren't still in such close contact. Missy is holding on to him, too, just as tightly. Slowly, as the shock of separation lessens, he realises that while she's pulled out of close rapport, she hasn't rebuilt whatever walls kept him from sensing her earlier. He can still feel her presence. It steadies him. 

Nonetheless, Missy recovers first. "No _peeking._ You'll spoil your surprise. Did you think you'd find Gallifrey that way?" She rolls her hips against his still-prominent erection with an exaggerated moan. "Oh! _Gallifrey!_ That would get you off, all right." 

"Shut up," he says. Not very convincingly, he suspects, especially since he can't quite seem to let go of her. 

"Sorry," she says, unrepentant. Under her breath, she adds, "But it's true." 

"Shh." He leans his forehead against hers, not trying to enter her mind, just breathing, calming himself. There are so many reasons not to do this. Kate could come back at any time. The UNIT guards might still be within earshot. Clara would be utterly disgusted with him, and Missy would make sure she found out, he has no doubt of that. 

But he can sense Missy's excitement under her veneer of amused indifference, and it fuels his own. Maddeningly, she waits for him to make the next move; she's that sure of him already. 

The worst part is that she's right. Oh, he could still stop this, if he wanted to. But he won't. Because he felt it, in that damaged, familiar mind: a need for connection as deep as his own. 

And if she won't let him back in her mind, bodies will have to be enough. He tilts his head against hers—their noses brush—and her lips part just as they meet his own. Her tongue finds his; she's surprisingly gentle about it, compared to the frontal assault earlier. Gracious in victory, or mutual defeat, or whatever this is. She still bites his lower lip when he pauses for breath. He doesn't pull away. The fierce glee on her face is terrifying, elating. 

A deepening flush has spread from her cheeks to her throat; he follows it down to her upper chest, unbuttoning her blouse as he goes. The old-fashioned corset she's wearing underneath has its charms, but it's frustratingly modest. "Must you wear such difficult clothes?" he mutters, brushing his lips along the top curve of her breasts, feeling for the laces behind her back. 

"Leave it on," she says with a breathless laugh. She unbuttons his shirt and waistcoat precisely, efficiently, and runs her red, red nails over his chest. They don't leave marks, though her glittering eyes suggest she's considering it. 

His abdominal muscles flinch as her hand moves lower; some useless self-preservation reflex, probably. As if he's not past caring. Her fingers skim the front of his trousers, stroking him lightly, too lightly. 

He kisses her collarbone, her chin, finds his way back to her mouth while he fumbles to unfasten her skirt. She grabs fistfuls of aubergine fabric and inches the hem up instead; he takes the hint, sliding his hand up under her petticoats. His fingers find the tops of her stockings, the softness of bare skin just above. He swallows. 

"You can leave those on, too, if you like," she stage-whispers. She covers his hand with her own, guides it between her thighs as though sharing a secret. He feels a thin layer of satin, traces the contours beneath: soft, sleek, a certain suggestive hint of wet warmth. 

"Aren't the knickers anachronistic?" he asks, rubbing her slowly through the satin. Yes, definitely wet. He presses a knuckle against her. 

Her hips jerk and she curses. "Hurry up, damn you, we haven't got time—" 

She's right. He can't wait any longer. He slips her knickers down and, oh, _that_ feels like crossing a line. Then he's struggling with his own belt buckle, button, zip, pants—it's almost as frustrating as her ridiculous layers, but somehow he gets everything out of the way. 

Missy strokes his cheek, suddenly tender. "How long has it been for you? Is that body a virgin?" He doesn't dignify that with an answer. She clucks her tongue sadly. "You won't last a moment." 

He slides his cock along her inner thigh, hears her gasp. "Sorry, were you saying something?" He may be less in control than he's pretending, but so is she. 

She looks him straight in the eye. "Yes. I was telling you to hurry up and fuck me already."

He drops all pretence, doesn't look away as he guides himself into her. For a moment, he's lost: the shock of pleasure, the inescapable knowledge that he's sleeping with the enemy, literally and figuratively, in the middle of a crisis of her making. It's a betrayal of Clara, of Kate, of people he cares for, and it shouldn't feel like this: so inevitable, so necessary. So _good_. ( _Betrayed my trust, betrayed our friendship, betrayed everything that I've ever stood for_ —) His shame does absolutely nothing to diminish his raging erection. 

Missy strokes the back of his neck, whispers something harsh and sweet in his ear, and he closes his eyes. Gives himself up to her. He needs this, has needed this for so long. At least while she's wreaking havoc on him, she's not hurting anyone else. 

With a slow, smooth thrust, he begins to move. Missy, predictably, is not quiet, but he doesn't care. Doesn't stop. They're tangled hopelessly in clothes and accoutrements—her skirt and petticoats pushed up, his trousers around his knees, her corset, the damned _chain_ —but all that matters is the slick rhythm between them, the feeling of her body and his. 

Missy gasps, moans, cries out his name. Urgently, again, when he doesn't respond: " _Doctor_." 

"Yes," he groans into her neck. No use holding back now. Inevitably, the momentum starts to build. 

"Say it," she breathes.

"Missy—" 

"You know what I mean. Say it." He kisses her, bites softly at her lip, but she persists. "Just this once. Say it for me. Please." 

He brushes his lips against her ear. Whispers into it. _Mistress_. 

Panting, flushed, she shudders beneath him. His own rhythm stutters, steadies, stutters again as he tries desperately to keep himself in check, to gauge how close she is. 

She rakes her nails down his back and he gasps, bucking sharply. "Ladies first," she purrs in his ear. "Don't you dare come yet." 

He struggles to hold on, tense, jaw tight. Thrusts into her faster, harder. He hopes that the pressure of his pelvis against hers is going to be enough, because he has nothing like the control to get a hand free and help her along. He hears his own moans—he can't stop them now, can't hold anything back for much longer. He needs her, needs her to—

Unsurprisingly, when Missy reaches climax, it's a screaming, sobbing, _incredibly loud_ climax. He'd suspect her of theatrics, but the truth is, when he's shuddering into her a moment later, it really does feel _that_ good. He muffles his own cries against her shoulder, and somehow manages to hold on until every last spasm has been wrung from both of them before collapsing over her, shaking with the sheer relief of finally letting go. 

The last thing he feels is the press of fingers at his temples before darkness takes him.

* * *

He _knew_ this was a bad idea.

He's naked when he regains consciousness, of course. His ankle is now chained to the bedframe, also of course. Missy is by the door, all prim and buttoned once again, hair pinned in place, reapplying her lipstick. His clothes are folded neatly on the desk next to her. 

"Ah, you're back," she says. "Sorry I can't stay. I had a lovely time, really, but I'm on a tight schedule. You know how it is."

Any reply he might have had is forestalled by a hollow thud; the plane lurches, as if it's hit turbulence. Or as if something has impacted the hull. 

"Oops! That's my cue. Must dash." She blows him a kiss on her way out the door. 

He sighs, scrounging on the floor for one of her discarded hairpins, and gets to work picking the lock on his ankle cuff.


End file.
